


In at the Mouth

by sewn



Series: A Drinking Song [2]
Category: The Shannara Chronicles (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Erectile Dysfunction, F/M, First Time, Genital Piercing, Magical Bond, Nipple Piercings, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, don’t mix drinking and mind-reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24912655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/pseuds/sewn
Summary: He’d imagine it hurts, but she meets his upward gaze with a smile, whispers, “It doesn’t.” Her fingers stroke his ear, searching for a shape that isn’t there. “Come on -” she lifts her knee, “- read my mind.”
Relationships: Allanon/Mareth (Shannara)
Series: A Drinking Song [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802755
Kudos: 7
Collections: Season of Kink





	In at the Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> This is effectively a sequel to “In at the Eye,” but should more or less work as a stand-alone.
> 
> For the Season of Kink prompt “First Time.”

The bottle is forgotten as soon as the door closes.

He tried to keep to his one cup, but the sweet growing joy inside Mareth seeped into his body, his mind. He’s not even sure if it was his own enjoyment of the drink or hers that flew to his head. It’s the furthest thing from sensible to dive into her thoughts like this, but she’s a magic user. A beacon he’s drawn to. His kin. And most of all, she’s her. Herself. Mareth. Now she is like the wine, her skin calling to his mouth. She pulls him down, or he lifts her up, and it all hits his senses, her sweat and the dirt of the road, a lingering scent, some bitter wintry thing.

“Off off off,” she huffs, lips tacky and dragging down over his stubble, and yanks the buckles of his coat, futile, fluttery, and he hears the telltale whisper in his mind, her instinct to burn off the offending metal. Before anyone gets hurt he takes a step back; she retreats, too, throws off her cloak, the silver of her jewels clinking on the floor, and begins to remove her boots with some difficulty. He’s quicker, hands steady, never mind jittery thoughts, standing in his trousers only while she’s still unlacing herself.

“Let me help -”

She doesn’t protest. Merely watches as he drops to his knees to divest her of boots and shorts. It’s far from selfless: her legs bared, he can run his fingers up the curve of her calves. Her scent is of tart berries, of summer lingering still. Her eyes are dark, gold-flecked in the faint lantern light, a mirror of his own, he knows, and perhaps that should stop them but she only smiles and beckons him up to help her get rid of the rest.

There’s a lot to unwrap. He kisses every inch of her as they’re revealed to him, the vines and the kingfisher wings, up her neck to her ear until she laughs and turns in the loose hold of his arms so he can tug open the knot holding her top together. The runes on the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades are odd to see, as if looking at himself from outside. The power calls to him from underneath her skin. Same. Different.

She presses closer back so he has a view down her chest. More tattoos, from breastbone to pubic mound, vines bursting with flowers. She’s all wine and forest green. Her breasts perfect in his hands, easily covered, areolas light brown with the finest of fine dark hair. He’s a little surprised to find both of her nipples pierced through with small metal bars. He’s seen her in stages of undress before but never paid attention here. Never thought how it might feel to her, the press of tight fabric on her skin. Or a human touch. How it makes her sound. He brushes over one nipple, hard enough to push the little metal beads into her skin, and her voice is bright and dusky at once. She is small in his arms and yet her power surrounds him entirely, a crashing wave, an inescapable scent, a burn all over.

“You’re, ah -” Mareth rocks back against him, “- still wearing too much.” He feels her feel: hard leather on her bare skin and the buckle digging into her lower back, and he lets go so she can turn around again.

Her hands find his belt, a repetition of earlier. Her wine-dried lips and tongue scrape over his clavicles, breastbone, then up again, teeth sinking into his earlobe. The floor is cool under her straining toes.

Sat on the bed, she is a new mystery to unravel. He goes down on his knees with relief. She’s wet and beautiful. A piercing here too: one little silver bead right above her clitoris, other half an inch higher. He’d imagine it hurts, but she meets his upward gaze with a smile, whispers, “It doesn’t.” Her fingers stroke his ear, searching for a shape that isn’t there, “Come on -” she lifts her knee, “- read my mind.”

He _does_ , relieved to have her ask for once, not that he could stop her mind from crashing against his right now, finally drawing in her scent in full. The spark of the little metal ball pushing into her throbbing flesh travels down his spine. Her grip stings his scalp, but he doesn’t force her off, it’s not a distraction but an addition to the sensation and how she pierces his senses all over.

The angle’s not good for anything deeper, and suddenly he wants that, needs that, or she does, the line between their reactions quickly fading away. He pushes her on her back on the small bed, a bad fit, but he cradles her hips and she slides one leg over his shoulder, and when he tastes her again he forgets the strain on his knee. She’s sugar and salt, elven-sweet, human-sharp, a contradiction, it makes sense because that’s what she’s always been, open and closed, full of feelings he doesn’t know how to return, or know if she even wants him to.

“Fingers,” she sighs, growls, and he complies, with one, two, a flash of worry his hands are too rough for her, a bad fit too, but he rubs the pierced flesh with his tongue, feels that little bar under her skin, and her hips jump, her fingers curl and toes dig into the rough bedding, and no, they’re perfect together.

“I don’t wanna -” she thinks the rest with some desperation, and he knows exactly what she feels, how she doesn’t want this to end, but it’s too late, she writhes and grinds her teeth and then her wet hot flesh tightens around his fingers and she sinks her nails in skin somewhere, his or hers, it matters not.

“I apologize.” He glances up at her face. The lantern’s gone out.

Her breathless laughter returns, it makes her muscles tighten everywhere and his knuckles all wet. “Yeah, that’s -” her toes rub him somewhere on his side, “- it’s okay. Very okay.” He finds her reaching fingers in the near-dark.

The arousal’s still in her, and he wants to keep that flame alive as long as she wishes. His beard is hopelessly stained with her bittersweet juices and getting more so. Her steady breaths turn into gulps for air. He goes up then, a trail over the evergreen leaves, sweat-slick skin, until he has the shape of her nipples under his tongue.

She’s even more sensitive here now, and she squirms, fingers digging, pushing, tugging - “Let me, let me -” she finally makes him roll over, straddles him.

Rocking her sensitive parted flesh against his hardened length, she finds her peak again, bends down to bury her whines in his mouth. He can taste salt, from her sweat or tears. Her words are hot in his ear, struggling out of her.

“I want - do you - can we -”

She gives up, lets her hand find his manhood between their bodies, slicked with their juices.

The pleasure inside him is a soft wave: as her orgasm recedes, he’s left with a barely rippling lake, a pleasant whisper of her warmth. He knows it’s the intoxication in conjunction with his body’s particular magical ailments; it’s been a while since he’s had to think of it, explain it. He takes her wrist gently. “That can wait,” he says into her palm, sure she _feels_ it more than hears.

“Oh - I’m sorry,” she says, and he doesn’t want or need her worrying either. He settles for pulling her down to taste her skin again. It is tears but of pleasure, of the night gathering in her eyes. How odd and perfect to feel it all.

“I should say that,” he manages, but she shakes her head against the pillow. Her hair’s coming loose.

“No -” she says, “- yeah - okay.” She kisses him once more, and it is serious but drowsy, tension inside her giving up. “Let’s not be sorry. Either of us.”

It’s a little less cramped in the bed when they’re side to side, face to face, and she throws her leg over his. Her arm across his shoulder. When he closes his eyes, he can’t tell where the border between their bodies runs. He still feels her feel everything. It goes back and forth. Two mirrors. Same yet different. And same because different: her elven heart on her right side, right against his human heart. Beating as one.


End file.
